


Act One, Scene Three

by TheLastDemiWarriorNinjaofFireSide



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Based off of Shakespeare, Based on a Shakespearean play, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Gen, I’m bad at making tags I’m sorry, Margaret’s Monologue, Panic Attacks, Post-SvSr, Richard III - Freeform, Roman Angst, but he recites lines from it!, it’s not like...‘actually’ on a play, lots of venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:19:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24942976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastDemiWarriorNinjaofFireSide/pseuds/TheLastDemiWarriorNinjaofFireSide
Summary: Acting out on stage was supposed to relieve stress for Roman, a safe way to vent in front of a crowd that adored him.So why wasn’t it working this time?
Relationships: Roman/being very sad
Comments: 44
Kudos: 201





	Act One, Scene Three

**Author's Note:**

> I actually started this the day after pof came out and then forgot about it for like two months lol

Roman stood, blinking in the spotlights of the greatest place on earth: _Broadway._

The crowd in front of him was _roaring,_ the muted grey mass waving and cheering like waves on a beach, the lights of their cameras sparkling and dazzling, as if he were on a runway. Everything was as it should be, with Roman center stage, sword in hand, heart and chest pumping, and the limelight brilliant.

And Roman was _miserable._

The crowds were loud, _too_ loud. They _screamed,_ the sound grating and piercing. The cameras flashed confusingly, making Roman stumble back in surprise. Roman was center stage, the main attraction, the biggest deal that ever dealt, and he was _screwing it up._

He didn’t know his lines, and he was ragged and messy and confused and _wrong._ His mighty sword hung limply from his left hand, the tip just barely touching the ground. His heart and chest were pumping in the effort not to _break_ right then and there on the stage, and a bead of sweat trailed down his face from the heat of the too-bright limelight. _It was too much._

Roman readjusted his grip on his sword, attempting to bring it up proudly, like a knight prepared to go into battle, to defeat the great evil that had plagued the land, but his feeble attempt fell short. _It wasn’t enough._

Roman didn’t even know what he was doing! Was he supposed to sing or dance? Fight or play along? _Defend_ _or_ _attack?_

A short, chopped noise escaped Roman as he opened his mouth to sing — something. _Michael in the Bathroom?_ _No Good Deed?_ Perhaps _Waving Through a Window?_ Roman was kinda in the mood for _Broadway, Here I Come._ Maybe he could enact a couple of the scenes from that song, except this time a bit more… _realistic._

_They chose_ him _over_ me.

_They’d rather listen to the_ villain _than_ me.

A disbelieving laugh. The crowd blurred. Frustration boiled in Roman’s gut, and he clenched his hands into fists.

“You _devil!_ I remember these pains _all too well!”_ Roman burst out suddenly, ignoring the way his tears sat heavily on his eyelids, “You _killed_ my husband, Henry, in the tower, and my poor son, Edward, at Tewksbury!”

Roman gripped his sword with new energy. Margaret's monologue, from Shakespeare’s _Richard III_ , act one, scene three. A speech full of passion and frustration, directed at Richard and the rest of the royals. She had been stripped of her crown, her _family,_ by a _murderous_ duke, who would do _anything_ to get power.

It seemed fitting.

“Yes, and you spent better blood than _his_ or your _own!”_ Roman continued, “You were a murderous _villain,_ and you _still_ _are!”_

Roman yelled that last line out into the cavernous shell of a building. The crowds had quieted —Roman felt quite alone— but the roaring in Roman’s ears didn’t fade. That—that _Deceit_ would never change. He had _used_ Roman, humiliated him _time_ and _time_ again. Deceit was a _villain._ Everyone had told him so. Thomas, Virgil, and most importantly, _Patton._ Patton _couldn’t_ be wrong. He _couldn’t. Deceit was a villain._

“No pleasure for the king, _indeed!”_ Roman shouted, “I am the _real_ king, and the experience is _completely_ _joyless._ I can _no longer_ hold my tongue!” Roman made a wide sweeping gesture with his right hand, quick and angry, as if he were cutting the air with his hand.

Roman had given up the chance of a _lifetime_ because everyone had said Deceit was _bad._ He had made that choice because it was _wrong_ to choose himself over others. That’s what they had said. That’s what _Patton_ had told him. Roman was so _tired_ of always being wrong! Side with the snake, he was in the wrong! Side _against_ the snake, he was _still_ in the wrong!

Roman just wanted to do something _right,_ for a change! Was _that_ so bad? He wanted to do the _right thing._ That was the _basis_ of his very _existence._ He was the good one, the _prince!_ He _had_ to act like a _prince._

“I felt more pain from _exile_ than I would have from being _dead_ here at home.” Roman declared bitterly, skipping a few lines. The pain in his chest reminded him of Thomas’s and Patton’s faces as they avoided eye contact with him. He’d rather _die_ than face their disapproval, their _disappointment._ Why couldn’t he just _stay_ in their good graces? What was it about him that kept _fucking_ it up? 

Roman leveled his sword at an imaginary fibbin’ foe, “You, _Richard,_ owe me a husband and a son.” _You,_ Deceit, _owe me my friends and honor._

“And the _rest_ of you,” Roman waved his sword at an imaginary group of scallywags, “owe me a _kingdom._ And _all_ of you owe me _allegiance.”_ Honestly? He’d just settle for a hug or two. Some _praise_ would be nice… 

“The sorrow that _I_ feel actually belongs to _you,_ and the high life _you_ enjoy actually belongs to _me!”_

The roles were switched up. _Roman_ should be the one to save Thomas! He should be the _prince!_ Not the… the _antagonist._ Deceit was _evil!_ Deceit wasn’t supposed to _help!_ Everything he did was a convoluted _lie_ to _manipulate_ those around him! And Roman would _know_ because he’d been the fucking _victim_ of those lies!

_Thank_ god _you don’t have a_ mustache, _Roman, otherwise, between you and Remus, I wouldn’t know_ who _the evil twin is!_

_No!_ Roman couldn’t be the _bad guy!_ He was a _prince!_ He was _wholesome_ and _good_ and _right!_ That was his _best trait!_ But _now,_ apparently, up was down, east was west, _good_ was _bad._

_“You_ stole it from me!” Roman’s hands clenched on his sword even tighter, squeezing as he got into a fighting stance, despite the lack of physical enemies. His tear-laden eyes began to spill over, and he swiped at his face with his shoulder, ducking his head and quickly looking back up at the “enemy”.

_Deceit_ had taken whatever respect or love that Thomas had for him. That was the only thing that could have happened. It made sense! Somehow, through his twisted lies, Deceit had altered Thomas’s view of him. Because Thomas had _said_ that Roman was his hero! Roman was the _hero!_ The _good guy!_ And now…

“You _stole_ it from me…” Roman whispered, the tip of his sword drooping.

And now he _wasn’t._

A hollow ache thrummed in his chest, a wide cavern of _rage_ and _frustration_ and _grief,_ that made Roman want to _yell,_ to _scream,_ to—to do _something._

Oh, who was he kidding? Patton had been _wrong._ Patton had _admitted_ that he had been _wrong,_ that he didn’t know what to do sometimes. Thomas and Patton had accepted Deceit, and nothing made _sense_ anymore. What happened to the good old days, where Roman’s only care was whether or not he left his selfie stick at home? Or that Virgil— _Anxiety,_ then— had a darker view of Disney than him? 

What happened to the days where Roman felt _loved?_ Or if not that, at least _content?_ Everyone seemed to be _against_ him these days, whether it be jabs about his ideas, his _intelligence,_ or who he agreed with. Roman was just… tired. 

_“Fuck!”_ Roman screamed, throwing his sword to the side with a clatter, bursting back into the monologue, “What, you were all _snarling_ before I arrived, ready to catch each other by the throat like _dogs!”_ Roman stamped his foot on the wood of the stage, hands clenched.

Everyone… everyone had _hated_ Deceit. They did _whatever_ they could to ignore him. Roman had _defended_ him, like stupid _idiot_ he was. And look where that got him— Virgil had been mad at him, _Thomas_ was disappointed in him. Because Thomas _wanted_ to go to the callback, and _Roman_ was his _desires._ But it was _wrong_ to go to the callback, so Roman was also in the wrong then.

Now, the _one time_ Roman didn’t listen to Deceit, it was wrong as well? Talk about _double standards!_ When he _was_ fooled by that snake’s _lies,_ he was yelled at. But now? 

A strangled noise escaped Roman, and he stepped forward towards the make-believe snake, ”But now that _I’m_ here, you turn your hatred toward _me?”_ It wasn’t _fair,_ “Did the duke of York’s terrible curse have _so_ much weight with God, that God repaid him not _only_ with Henry and my lovely Edward’s _death,”_ Roman realized he was shaking, “but with the _loss_ of their _kingdom_ and with my _banishment,_ too?” 

Was it because of Remus? Did the others see Remus in him, and that’s why they didn’t listen to him anymore? Was he too similar to his twin? 

Roman growled and made his way to where his sword lay, “All because of what happened to that _brat_ Rutland?” Roman swiped up his sword and whirled around, slicing an invisible enemy, his sword halting right where the villain’s head would be.

Just because Deceit gave them his _name_ didn’t mean he was _right._ It was—it was just another _manipulation tactic! Nothing_ came from his mouth but honey-sweet _lies,_ to make others do his _bidding!_ Roman had fallen for his tricks before, because he was too goddamn _stupid_ to notice. Why didn’t the others notice _now,_ when _Roman_ did? He was _trying_ to _protect_ them from the cruel fate _Deceit_ had left him!

Roman held out his sword in a wide gesture, but his mind stuttered, and he paused. He didn’t know the next line. Roman licked his lips and opened his mouth, willing his tongue to supply the words, casting a quick glance to the audience, who judged him with a palpable silence.

“I—”

Suddenly the lights were too bright, the limelight too hot. Roman dropped his stance, squirming under the attention of the audience. They were all _looking_ at him. They were all witnessing his _failure._

“I—”

_And Roman couldn’t stand it._

“What am I doing _wrong?”_ Roman screamed into the eerie silence, his words echoing. Tears of anger spilled over, and he swiped at his face with the cuff of his sleeve, “I have _tried_ and _tried_ to protect you!” Roman gripped his sword, gesturing wide in a plea, “I’ve tried to help again and again and _again,_ but nothing seems to _work!_ What does _he_ do that’s better?” Roman demanded, “What gives _him_ the sway?” 

“I’ve been here since the _very_ _beginning!”_ More tears. Roman wiped his eyes again, “I’ve been _fighting_ for Thomas this _entire_ time! Did that mean _nothing?_ When _Virgil_ showed up, Thomas came to _me_ to banish him! I’ve come up with _so_ many ideas for him! Without me, he wouldn’t even have his _job!_ I’ve given up _so_ much for Thomas, why can’t he _see_ that?” A sob built in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down.

“I’ve given up _so_ much for him, because it’s the _right_ thing to do! It’s the _right thing!_ I’m—I’m a _good_ person! I— I’m—”

Roman’s breath was a shaky one, and his throat tightened as he whimpered, “I’m supposed to to be the _hero.”_

There was only an accusing silence.

Roman dropped his sword and slumped to his knees, one arm wrapped around himself, the other tangled in his hair, _pulling._

A tangled scream ripped itself from Roman’s throat, “I’m supposed to be the _hero,_ god _damnit!”_

His own voice echoed back to him, an empty, hollow response, _mocking._ Roman choked back a sob.

“If I’m not a hero,” Roman whispered, a tear rolling down his nose, “what _am_ I?”

_Useless._

Then there was a soft noise. A _clap._

Another. 

Then _another._

Then more and more and _more_ until the whole theater was _roaring_ again, clapping and cheering into a cacophony of _noise,_ swelling and swirling and _loud._ The audience _cheered,_ hollering and and taking pictures, the flashes leaving afterimages on Roman’s eyelids. They were cheering for _him._

And Roman sobbed through it all.

He was hunched over, his hand pulling at his hair so hard it _burned._ His side stung from where his fingers were digging into his skin, but he didn’t care. What was the _use_ of it all, if he couldn’t be Thomas’s hero? What was the _use_ , if everything he did ended out to be _wrong?_ Why couldn’t he _do better?_

Deceit’s words echoed in his head again. _Evil._ The villain had called him _evil._

Patton had admitted he had been _wrong._ Patton could be _wrong._

If Patton could be wrong, then what did that say about _Roman?_ Patton had told him he was the _good_ twin, _brave_ , and _honest!_ Was Patton wrong about _that,_ too? If Patton was wrong—then—then that meant that _Roman_ could be—he could be the _villain._

Roman heaved in a breath, sobbed it back out. He had made fun of Deceit’s _name_ and called him _evil._ Was that even _right?_ What _was_ right? If it _was_ wrong—if _Roman_ was wrong... 

The crowd was so _loud._ It was suffocating him, the noise swirling round and around and _is this how Virgil feels all the time?_ Roman couldn’t _breathe_ and his thoughts were so _crowded_ but at the same time all he could think was, _Not enough, not enough, not enough,_ and his hand pulled at his hair like his life _depended_ on it and his head _hurt_ and his chest _ached,_ but he _didn’t_ stop, _couldn’t_ stop, because he fucking _deserved_ it. He wasn’t _enough,_ wasn’t a _hero,_ wasn’t _good—_

“Stop.”

One word, soft, even over the noise, coming from stage left.

Roman froze, his heart continuing to hammer out a staccato beat. He sucked in a breath and held it, _forcing_ himself to calm down. He would _not_ look weak in front of whoever was behind him. 

Footsteps. A gloved hand on his shoulder. Roman looked up into the heterochromatic eyes of Deceit. 

Roman started, then immediately yanked his shoulder away, looking down, “Leave, _Deceit.”_ Roman spat. _I won’t let a_ villain _see me like this._

The snake just knelt down, gently prying Roman’s unwilling hand from his head, “I came to apologize, Roman, just hear me out.” Deceit’s voice was gentle, despite the roaring crowd.

Roman scoffed, batting Deceit’s hand away, “Uh, yeah, _sure,_ and let me get ensnared by your _lies_ ? That _totally_ doesn’t sound like an _idiot_ move or anything. I may be stupid, but I’m not _dumb.”_

Deceit’s voice was exasperated, “That doesn’t make any—” he cut himself off with a harsh breath, “Roman, I’m _not_ going to lie to you.”

Roman looked up, glaring through his tear-stained eyes, and Deceit sighed.

“I swear, if I have to do this _every_ time—” the snake grumbled, and he fumbled at his gloves.

Roman inhaled sharply, eyeing Deceit. Deceit’s gloves were important to him. Taking them off would leave him feeling at his most vulnerable. 

“How do you know I won’t attack you?” Roman said sharply as the first glove came off, “My sword isn’t even three feet away.”

Deceit paused, looking up, “You won’t.” He said simply, “I haven’t attacked you yet. I’m unarmed. You wouldn’t attack an unarmed person, would you?”

Roman huffed, looking away, “I suppose not.” He grumbled.

After a moment, the snake spoke up, “There. Now you know I’m not lying.”

Looking back at Deceit, Roman saw that he had laid his gloves together on his lap, his hands flat on his knees. Roman notes the subtle tremble in Deceit’s hands, and he looked up into the other side’s heterochromic eyes, a little spark of confusion in his chest. Deceit met his gaze evenly.

“Well?” Roman snapped, “Get on with it and then _leave.”_

Deceit’s shoulders twitched, but his calm expression didn’t change, “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you,” he said smoothly, “and I shouldn’t have dug in where I knew it hurt most. For that, I am sorry. And—” Deceit hesitated, “and I’m afraid there’s been a...miscommunication.”

Roman, whose eyes had narrowed as Deceit had spoken, raised an eyebrow.

“Roman,” Deceit’s hand twitched, as if he had been about to place it on Roman’s shoulder, but stopped himself before he could, “I _never_ meant for you to believe that Thomas had lost faith in you.” 

Roman stiffened, and he sat up straighter, but Deceit continued, voice urging, “You are Thomas’s most — most _wonderful_ and _fanciful_ thoughts, Roman. You provide escape into _fantastical_ worlds when Thomas needs you to. You are his _self-confidence_ and fill him and your work with your _passion_ to create. Without you, Thomas would be _completely_ and utterly _lost.”_ Deceit leaned forward slightly, one ungloved hand reaching to clutch at Roman’s sleeve, “You _are_ Thomas’s hero, Roman. I never meant for you to think otherwise.”

Roman drew his head back, blinking at Deceit in surprise. Then, a wide _(too wide)_ smile broke out on his face. Something bright started to shine behind Deceit’s eyes, but then—

“Why, Deceit, that was almost _good!”_ Roman praised, but there was a sweet sarcasm to his voice; too cheery, too _bright,_ “One would think that _you’re_ the side best at acting!”

Deceit blinked, confusion plain on his face, Roman cut him off before he could start, his grin almost splitting his face in half, “No, _really,_ Deceit, I actually _fell_ for it at first!” Roman yanked his arm away from Deceit’s hand, tone darkening into something darker, angrier, “Which is surprising, seeing as I am _all-_ too-familiar with your sickly-sweet _lies.”_

“Roman—” Deceit clenched his fists, “my gloves are both _figuratively_ and _literally_ off, what _more_ do you want from me?”

“I want you to stop _lying!”_ Roman snarled savagely, “I want you to stay _away_ from me and my friends! I want you to stop _corrupting_ Thomas!” Roman pushed himself to his feet, snatching up his sword and leveling it at Deceit, “And I want you to _leave.”_ He thrust the sword forward, so it was just barely touching the snake’s throat, just to enforce his point, _“Now.”_

Deceit swallowed, stilling, “You won’t actually hurt me.”

“Why not?” Roman sneered, “It’s not like I can actually _kill_ you.” Roman gritted his teeth, “And you’ve certainly done _worse.”_

Deceit raised an eyebrow, “Oh _have_ I, now? Please, _enlighten_ me.”

Roman glared at Deceit, “Oh don’t play the stupid one, Jekyll and _Snide!”_ he snapped, “That title belongs to _me,_ and I’d _appreciate_ it if you didn’t steal _another_ one from my possession!”

Deceit blinked, seemingly taken aback, “Well, seems like there’s a _lot_ to unpack from that right _there,”_ he said, as sickeningly smooth and coy as ever, “but I’m afraid I _really_ don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Roman stared at Deceit, clenching his jaw, dumbfounded, before growling in frustration, “You _don’t—”_ he cut himself off with a short breath and turned sharply away. He wouldn’t give the snake the satisfaction of stabbing him and proving him right, that Roman _was_ evil. He _couldn’t_ let that happen, “I can’t _believe_ you.”

“What?” Deceit sounded genuinely curious, perhaps even apprehensive.

“It’s like— like you don’t even _care!”_ Roman exploded, wheeling around, arms spread out in frustration as his sword _poofed_ away, “You don’t even know what I’m _talking_ about!”

“Then perhaps... you could explain it to me?” Deceit asked carefully.

Roman growled—a sharp, guttural noise— as he hunched over to fist his hands in his hair, then quickly forced himself to stop the almost instinctual action, his hands fluttering uncertainly, “ _Arrgh!_ I just— you think it was so _inconsequential_ , don’t you?” He spat out, ignoring the snake’s confused expression, “You must think I’m _so_ stupid, so _dramatic_ for even being so caught up about it!”

Roman laughed, almost _giggled,_ tears springing into his eyes. He scrubbed at them with the heel of his palm, “I can’t be _lieve,”_ he gasped out, “I can’t believe I actually _fell_ for any of it! I mean—” Was he laughing, or was he _crying?_ “I mean, it’s not like any of it could’ve been _true!”_ He was cut off with another giggle, combined with a pathetic sniffle, “Like _anyone_ would love this _failure_ of a side!”

“Roman…” Deceit seemed almost _fearful,_ can you _believe_ it? “What are you talking about?”

“A _fun, wholesome_ prank!” Roman cackled— _howled,_ even. One arm was wrapped around his aching stomach as he doubled over, the other was used for wiping away the tears that just _wouldn’t stop coming,_ “I bet it was _so funny,_ watching me actually _believe_ what you were saying, just being my regular _idiot_ self!” 

“Roman—” Deceit’s whisper was horrified, “I never—”

_“Shut it!”_ Roman screamed, cutting off his laughter. His voice echoed in the cavernous building—when had the theater become so quiet? 

Deceit quieted immediately, and Roman hiccuped, wiping his nose with his sleeve, continuing, “I am _not_ gonna _listen_ to the words of the one who should be in _my_ place right now!” he screeched, “I’m not going to be _fooled_ into thinking that the one who _used_ me is somehow _good!”_ Roman sneered at Deceit, “I’m sure that your little ‘prank’ was so _hilarious._ I bet it was _so_ _entertaining_ to watch me chase my own _tail_ for a _complement_ or two.” Roman raked his hand through his hair in frustration, his fingers painfully scraping his scalp.

_“Fuck,_ I almost went to the _callback_ because of you! _”_ Roman snapped. Deceit seemed almost frozen where he stood, “You strung me along like a _puppet,_ Deceit, and then when I managed to break free from the strings…” Roman waved a hand, looking away from the snake, “You sicked _Remus_ on me.”

Deceit took a step forward, “Roman, I—” 

“Shut up, Janus.” Roman said tiredly, shoulders slumping. He felt drained, his limbs heavy.

Deceit froze at the usage of his name—the first time Roman had used it in context.

Roman ran a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his head as he turned around, he walked across the stage. He needed to get _out._ Out of _here,_ out of _this—_ he just needed—he just needed to _go._

“Wait, where are you going?” Deceit asked from behind him.

Roman paused, not bothering to look over at Deceit, “Your room moved across the border, did it not?”

The silence told Roman all he needed to know, and he nodded sadly, “I thought so.”

Deceit must have caught something in his voice, because he spoke up again, “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing!” Roman bit out, a spurt of energy—born of pain— making him spin around with a big, false grin, “Enjoy your new family, I suppose!”

Deceit took a step towards him, voice urgent, “They’re _your_ family, too, Roman.”

Roman waved a hand, grin still firmly in place, a weapon of sorts, “Nonsense!” he said cheerily, “I’m no thief! You’ve taken my place, it seems, and I am not one to be a sore loser!”

Deceit blinked, _“Wha—”_

“Oh!” Roman interrupted, a thought crossing his mind. He fumbled with his sash, “Since you’ve taken my place as the hero, I don’t think I’ll be needing _this_ anymore, _right?”_ Roman tore off his sash with trembling hands, hardly able to see through the tears. He threw the bundle of red fabric at Deceit. It landed a couple feet away from him.

“Roman, _no—_ don’t do this—”

Roman ignored the snake, looking around him, “Or,” — _throw,_ what could he _throw?—_ he summoned his sweater—the one he’d worked so _hard_ on—“Or _this!”_ he threw it at Deceit, this time hitting him square in the chest.

Deceit’s arms reflexively enclosed around the knitted fabric, “Roman, _please—”_

Roman choked on his own breath as he summoned his sword. Deceit took a step back, eyes widening, but instead of throwing it at him, Roman held it up over his knee, his body shaking, his breathing short and choppy.

_“No!”_ Deceit gasped out in horror, “Roman, _don’t!”_

“And I guess,” _Curse these goddamn tears,_ “that _this_ is useless, now!” Roman laughed, dark and self-deprecating. Why did he always laugh at times like these? “Just like _me!”_

Roman brought down his sword—his mighty sword, his beautifully manicured sword— down over his knee. Deceit flinched.

And Roman’s tears fell as his beloved sword _shattered._

“Roman?” J— _Deceit_ was kneeling by him— when had he gotten on the ground?— “Roman, you’re _bleeding.”_

Roman sat up, wiping his face with his hand, only for something _else_ to smear on his face. His hands stung. His cheek pulsed with a throbbing, wet pain.

“Roman?” Deceit breathed out.

Roman looked down at his knees, shoulders slumped. One half of his sword lay to his left, and he choked back a sob at the sight, “Don’t _call_ me that.”

Deceit’s hand twitched onto his shoulder, only to flinch back when Roman yanked his shoulder away, _“...Creativity?”_

“Don’t call me _that,_ either.” Roman rolled his shoulders and stood up, ignoring Deceit’s outstretched hand, “That’s my _brother’s_ title.”

“Then what _should_ I call you?” Deceit’s voice was small as Roman once again headed for the exit.

Roman paused, back facing Deceit, “I suppose…” a grin—not the most _sane-_ looking one—began to spread over his face, and he spun around. A red cape fell from his shoulders as he did so, fluttering to the ground as he bowed, one arm at his waist and the other spread outwards, “You may call me _Hatred.”_

Deceit started, “H— _Hatred?_ You mean—”

_Hatred_ rose from his bow, studying his nails before snapping some white gloves onto his hands, “Don’t you get it, dear _Self-Preservation?”_ His eyes, now lidded with eyeliner and red eyeshadow, flicked up to glare at Deceit, “If _you’re_ the hero in this story, there _has_ to be a villain to replace you!” he held out his arms, watching black spread from the cuffs of his sleeves to the rest of his dress shirt, “And who am _I_ to leave a story unbalanced?”

“Roman, you don’t have to—” 

“I said _don’t_ call me that!” Hatred’s voice was shrill, and he slammed his arms downwards, gloved fists clenching, “You lost the _right_ to call me that when you decided to _manipulate_ me!”

Deceit fell silent.

“And besides,” Hatred continued, _“someone_ has to keep my brother company.”

There were claps coming from below, just a quiet smattering of noise, growing steadily louder.

Hatred smirked at him, “It looks like _you’re_ the one in the spotlight, _Janus.”_ he gestured to the audience, who was staring to cheer, “And look at them, they _love_ you!” he let his smile drop, his tone turning dark, “Let’s see how long you can keep them _entertained.”_

Hatred bowed again, _mockingly,_ and then spun around on his heel and exited stage left, leaving the snake to the hands of the audience. Act one was done, his lines read, his monologues finished.

Hatred opened the door to exit, but instead of opening to the brightness of the Light Side, the eerie light of the Dark Side shone on his face, surrounding him with an unearthly red as it welcomed him for the first time.

Act two was about to begin.

And behind him, Janus stared out to the now screaming crowd, clutching a bundle of red fabric, a broken sword and shattered dreams laying at his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> Roman is: Sad
> 
> (I used sparknotes so Margaret’s Monologue was understandable lol)
> 
> (Oh, and my tumblr is astronomical-bagel!)


End file.
